


(would be) lovers dance when they're feeling in love

by viciouslittlewords



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys In Love, Dancing, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, POV John Watson, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, they're just in love pls save them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:06:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viciouslittlewords/pseuds/viciouslittlewords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John, really. You have to practice for your wedding. I’m willing to be the guinea pig for your no doubt disastrous mistakes. We don’t have all afternoon so just get up, take my hand, and I will teach you to waltz.”</p>
<p>John knows letting Sherlock teach him how to dance is a bad idea - very bad if the warmth in his belly and heat on his neck is anything to go by - but as always, Sherlock insists, and as always, John complies. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Missing Series 3 Scene: Sherlock teaches John to dance</p>
            </blockquote>





	(would be) lovers dance when they're feeling in love

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in the Sherlock fandom so any constructive criticism is welcome!! I'm so excited to finally be exploring these characters after so long :)
> 
> The title is taken from a song called All About Us by He Is We, and I've taken certain lyrics and incorporated them into the work cause I thought they just flawlessly described the missing scene of Sherlock teaching John to dance. Give it a listen if you feel like it cause it's one of those songs that always makes me smile and I want to relate all of my otps back to it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! Also, the fic is unbetaed. If anyone's willing to beta it for me, I'd be grateful :)

Sherlock’s crosses his arms over his chest and spreads his feet apart. “John, really,” he scolds. “You have to practice for your wedding. I’m willing to be the guinea pig for your no doubt disastrous mistakes. We don’t have all afternoon so just get up, take my hand, and I will teach you to waltz.”

He’s actually holding his hand out to John, a peace offering and a command all at once, and John wants to take it. Really, he does. But he also knows that learning to dance with Sherlock will be a very, very bad idea. The back of his neck goes a little warm with it. Oh so very _not good_.

He plays deaf and blind to Sherlock’s offer, sinks farther into his chair and picks up a newspaper to hide his face behind. That lasts about two seconds: Sherlock smacks the newspaper down and yanks John to his feet, causing them both to stumble with his force.

“Childish, John.” He says, arranging John’s body into what John assumes is the proper waltz position. “Hiding your face will not keep me from insisting. Now come on, stand up straight.”

John grimaces at him. “Why can’t you teach Mary, first? Then you can let her play guinea pig.” He looks at their hands and rolls his eyes at their position. “And why do you get to lead, anyway?” John switches his hands quickly, raises his eyebrows and grinning as Sherlock jumps with he rests his hand on his lower, silk-shirt covered back. “I’ll be leading, ta very much.”

Sherlock sighs deeply, like he’s truly at a loss for how to help John use his full brainpower and is striving for the patience of parents with unruly children. John doesn’t even bother to be insulted. “I don’t have to teach Mary how to waltz: I’ve already been assured she knows how, and however doubtful of her I may be of her skills, she has refused to let me appraise them.”

Sherlock switches their positions back as John blinks, absorbing. He didn’t know Mary knew how to waltz. Though it’s hardly surprising, Mary always knows all sorts of random things. John really wishes she’d tell him how she always knows exactly where he hides his gun and how she just automatically knows how to fix whatever’s wrong with their car at any given moment.

Sherlock yanks John close to him to regain his attention. “And I can hardly let her teach you because you need to practice for the first dance, John, and it’s inappropriate to let you dance with your wife to the song I have composed. It would be like seeing the dress before she walks down the aisle. At least,” he rolls his eyes, “that’s what Mrs. Hudson has assured me. And you must let me lead first: I will teach you how after you learn to follow. Think of the waltz as a good duet; both partners need to be equally apt as if one is weaker, the entire performance is thrown off.”

John’s ears have gone hot and surely a cherry red; he holds his shoulders and core tightly to keep from relaxing into Sherlock, forcing his mind to go blank and refusing to categorize the way Sherlock’s palm feels in his – dry, callused, oh, and – shit. He knew this was a bad idea. Before he can make a last effort at protest, Sherlock smiles boyishly, mischievously, and John’s heart does a funny little stumble, allowing Sherlock the time to press play, spin them, and just like that they’re -

\- dancing. Some place deep inside John that he keeps very hidden, locked in a box and tucked safe in his chest, goes warm like melted chocolate. Warm like spring and a fire in the winter, and warm like Sherlock’s torso against his now. It goes warm even as John feels tense with embarrassment, stepping on Sherlock’s toes, worrying that they’ll go tumbling sideways if he stops listening to Sherlock’s endless instructions even for a moment.

Sherlock pauses their movements, tips John’s chin up with one long finger. “Stop looking at our feet, John, it’s hardly proper etiquette.” John watches as the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, normally so tightly held with contempt, softens as his eyes flicker quickly over John’s frame, deducing. “John,” he says, voice low and comfortingly familiar, “I promise not to let you fall, hm? I will not get angry if you step on my feet, or let you turn a way you’re not supposed to.” He rubs a thumb across the arch of John’s hand in what John supposes he means as reassurance, though if Sherlock notices that hand tremble in response, he chooses to ignore it. “If you let it, dancing can be one the most relaxing activities.” He tugs John closer again, closer than what John imagines a waltz needs, and says, “Come now, it’ll be all right. Just give yourself over to it.” He smiles teasing and he steps forward, swaying them into the music once more. “Besides, all you have to do is follow my lead, and that’s hardly a stretch of trust beyond our everyday lives, is it?”

John huffs a little laugh. No, he supposes, it isn’t. Bit by bit, round by round, he feels his shoulders unwind, let’s his body sink into tempo with Sherlock’s, realizes it’s just another way they can learn to work in tandem, another way to communicate successful, to be the complementary shades they’ve always been. Sherlock makes them run through it six times before he tells John they can switch.

“You’re likely to grasp this easier, though you were a quick study once you relaxed,” he says, the music a low, looping hum in the background, making his voice sound more hypnotic than normal. “You’re used to leading in general, but now you can lead better because you know what it is to follow: you’ll be prepared to anticipate my movements, as you’ve already completed –”

Sherlock’s voice cuts off with a low gasp as John tugs Sherlock bodily into him, a little more reckless than before – _I said dangerous, and here you are_. John throws a smirk up at him, ending Sherlock’s ceaseless tirade and pushes gently at Sherlock’s chest with his own, sways his hips forward, gradually entering them into the waltz.

It is evident that this is the way they work best almost immediately; it only takes John two run through’s before he has it. He leads confidently, practically flawless, and Sherlock seems unable to remove his eyes from John’s, entranced in a way John rarely sees outside of crimes.

They continue to dance the routine over and over, getting less formulaic as they continue; Sherlock even lets John spin him. John wants to memorize how he feels, take it all in and hold it in cupped palms, but he does not want to look away from Sherlock, to blink too quickly, or too much, feels as if it could be their ruin.

The room is hushed, as if a small crowd is being told to hold in their shouts: whether they’re shouts of joy or warning John doesn’t know. What he does know is the rhythm has twisted its way around his bones, and won’t allow him to stop. The notes of the violin have crawled their way into his mind, whispering Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, endlessly Sherlock, and he wonders helplessly how Sherlock could possibly believe to have composed this song for Mary and him, when clearly, so clearly, this song will never remind him of anything other than Sherlock and him waltzing in their living room, coffee table hastily pushed aside, John’s lips mere inches from Sherlock’s clavicle.

They’re movements get slower, deeper, braver, until John dips Sherlock back, fingers tangled in black curls. He strokes the nape of a long neck, watching light eyes look back at him solemnly. It’s like they’re under a spotlight, hot on the back of John’s neck and illuminating the fact he is currently feeling something he has so rarely felt, and has only ever felt in relation to Sherlock. He wants to whisper -

_Do you hear that, love? Do you hear that? They’re playing our song, Sherlock. Our waltz. Do you think we’re ready? It’s about us isn’t it, what you wrote? It’s always all about us._

Just as John thinks he might really do it, he might really close those last few inches, or Sherlock would, his face taking on a desperate quality that has something clanging inside John, untamable and anxious to get out of it’s cage, only there’s a click and flash and Mrs. Hudson’s voice going “Oh _boys_ ,” in a high pitched sort of wail, and just like that –

\- ruin.

John slowly raises Sherlock back up, hand lingering on his waist before he steps quickly away and turns to look at Mrs. Hudson, who’s still half smiling, half crying, clutching at a disposable camera like a lifeline. John scolds her halfheartedly, forces his mouth into a teasing smile as he makes a comment about _rumours, Mrs. Hudson_ , and _don’t you know what it looks like when one reasonable gentleman teaches another how to dance?_

He listens to her tell him that she thought disposable cameras might be nice for the wedding, so she’s trying one out now, and the entire time being headily aware of Sherlock’s gaze, hot and searching, making a shudder start at the bottom of John’s spine. He forces his body into parade’s rest before it can get farther than the middle of his back, and tries to give himself entirely over to the unfeeling soldier. The only problem is the music is still playing, swelling, the tension between their bodies still thick, and he still wants to whisper.

_Did you hear that, love? Did you feel that? We were right, just then. So right, Sherlock. We always are._

This time, though, the whispers feel guilt laden, heavy as he thinks of Mary’s smile and her laugh and that this time it is her he owes his life to, her he owes for taking one look at him staring longingly at his gun and reaching a gentle hand out to guide him away from the worst of it. It is anger laden as he thinks of the years he spent without Sherlock, scared and alone, leg aching with old pain renewed. Most of all, it is laden with heartbreak, as he has already made his promises, he has already made his choice.

Unfortunately, for John at least, he keeps his promises, he follows through on his choices, and so he has no option but to slowly pack up the warmth in his belly, back it’s box it goes, tucked behind his sore-beating heart for safe-keeping.

He mumbles something about getting home to Mary, about it being late when he knows it is barely three in the afternoon, and quickly kisses Mrs. Hudson’s cheek goodbye. He doesn’t dare look at Sherlock – if he does he will stay, he will stay and kiss him and take him to bed if he wants and it’s too late for all that: John will not destroy the only person in his life that has never betrayed him.

So he will go, even as he leaves a generous part of his heart behind for Sherlock to clutch at with bloody, calloused palms. John hopes he’ll be nice to it, that he won't shove it somewhere carelessly and forget it’s there until it’s too late to save, but he doesn’t think too optimistically. This is Sherlock after all.

He’s got down all seventeen steps, is half way out the door when Mrs. Hudson’s calls quietly, reverent in a way he doesn’t understand, “John?”

“Mm?” he answers, turning toward her only half way, not removing his foot from the concrete step. He needs to get the hell out of here before he tosses a bomb onto everything he's trying to build for himself.

She raises the disposable camera, shakes it at him slowly, as if approaching a startled animal. “I’ll make you a copy,” the corners of her mouth turn up into a soft smile, “shall I?”

His left hand shakes a little, his throat going tight and small, but he nods his ascent at her all the same. Dangerous as it is, it is not something he will forget. And if he’s not forgetting anyway, he may as well have a picture of it to trace and cup in his palms, to pray to like a deity. He may as well allow himself this much.

With an answering, tentative smile to Mrs. Hudson, he steps out into the sunlight fully and jogs lightly down the stairs. He can still here the echoes of the violin from down here; he glances up to the front window, sees it really is Sherlock playing this time, his eyes locked on John from above.

John sucks in a breath and turns sharply away, almost running down the street.

Back to Mary, he thinks. Back to reality. He’s keeping his promise, and if it like his lips are throbbing for someone else when he kisses her hello, well it’s not like anyone can prove anything.

Not even the great Sherlock Holmes could prove that.


End file.
